


When the Old Gods Dance

by Caprice363



Category: Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser - Fritz Leiber
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bathing/Washing, Bathroom Sex, Blood and Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Rebellion/Riot, Rescue, Sex Magic, Slavery, Torture, Tribal Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:14:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21802000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caprice363/pseuds/Caprice363
Summary: Stand Alone Story No. 4 in which Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser recollect events of the previous night in Lankhmar. This was supposed to be simple, playful, sexy smut written to relieve a novel-length adventure coming up. Then a plot got in the way, with kidnapping, bondage, a riot, and some explicit violence. But we get to the sex – even a little playful magic.
Relationships: Fafhrd/The Gray Mouser
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	When the Old Gods Dance

“CAN’T BREATHE …” the Gray Mouser gasped faintly. It was true, mostly. He was face down on the mattress, pinned by Fafhrd’s powerful arm and held so tightly he was all but unmovable. The barbarian snoring beside him seemed made of stone./p>

The cat, who was feeling very gray after what had begun as an exceptional night at the Silver Eel, tried an elbow jab. There came a snort and Fafhrd rolled in, pulling him even closer! With a desperate groan, the Mouser wrestled about and blindly grabbed a fistful of long, red-gold hair. 

“Faf, move! _Now!_ ” 

Fafhrd moved, throwing himself onto the flat of his back. The Mouser rolled free. He leaped to his feet, seized the chamber pot from below and … and stopped. What was he wearing? Well, almost wearing. 

Cursing, he whipped off a wide, fringed scarf to tear at laces and gray silk – not his gray silk, but another’s until he could attend to the immediate. Afterward, he stared down at himself in disbelief. This was a harem dancer's garb, as transparent as a child’s lie. There were a dozen bangles and bells on his wrist; bells ringing his fingers, too. He noted the silver arm band and flexed his arm. An earring, much longer than his own small, plain hoop, brushed the side of his face when he moved. What. The. Hell. 

“Do you remember anything?” 

The Mouser whirled to meet his sword-mate’s eyes. Pain shot through his head, the results of a very bad hangover or the lumps he felt on his crown, possibly both. His stomach lurched at the sudden movement, but he quelled the threat of nausea. And here was another surprise; his knuckles were skinned and bruised which begged the question: Where were his gloves? Fafhrd sprawled, arms laced behind his head sporting one of his more idiotic grins ... a black eye and what had been a bloody nose. His long, muscled body was spattered in dried blood. 

Brown, topaz-flecked eyes widened. "Mog’s fangs - that must have been a hell of a brawl. Did you open a door with your face?”

“No doors – only ran into a few fists and a lot of steel. The usual.”

“Must have been a swarm of them to get that close.” The Mouser turned to the wash bowl, pouring fresh water over his hands, then soaked a cloth. He twisted it near dry and tossed it to Fafhrd, who wiped his face and held it to his eye. Flashes of the evening’s events began to take shape behind the fog as the Mouser sank down, finding purchase on the edge of the mattress. 

As was customary, events had begun at the Silver Eel; gambling and good winnings; music, drinking and dancing. And then more drinking and boasting with dancers Saleana and her sister Caleen. A fresh wager and a trip to their dressing room, then …

A huge chunk of memory landed. “I didn’t,” he moaned. 

“Oh, but you truly did, my fierce little beauty. So proud up there on the tables, flashing your ass to all of Lankhmar. Someone will surely write an ode: ‘It is as delicious as a peach in spring.’” 

The Mouser scowled daggers. “There are no peaches in spring.” 

Fafhrd chuckled softly. “Remember anything more?”

“Do I want to?”

“Well, it was memorable.” Fafhrd was still half-drunk, the work of days. He expected the coming hangover to be epic. Every muscle ached; his hands and face were tender and his jaw throbbed. 

Two merchant ships from far off Tisilinilit had unloaded at the docks earlier in the month. A grand caravan all the way from exotic Tovilyis had made its way through the outer jungles of Klesh and mysterious Kartishla until it reached the Great Gate of Lankhmar filled with all kinds of merchandise and temptations. The ensuing pop-up bazaars and banquets, balls and bashes had established an ongoing festival. The City of the Black Toga thrived on such events and so did its people from highest court to lowest den. The Thieves Guild could barely keep up with the opportunities. Whores of every variety were in demand; taverns, gaming emporiums and opium dens thrived, especially with new dream smokes and herbs to sample. So did the darker trades involving more complex and blood spawned lusts. Then there were the slaves; fresh meat to beckon Lankhmar’s wealthy for new house help and bed-pets as well as fresh bodies for the grain fields. 

To be fair, Fafhrd mused, even the sword-mates’ recent and highly profitable escapades were oiled, so to speak, by the influx of new wines, brandies and ale. It was madness and it had to end, sooner now he thought than later.

Fafhrd had spied the Gray Mouser slipping away to the Eel’s dressing rooms made captive by the wiles and pleadings of those buxom yellow-haired women of dance, Saleana and Caleen. Neither he nor the cat could resist a sweet face when accompanied by an equally sweet disposition. Even so, he was surprised to see the Mouser leave with them. Rounded, hip-swaying beauties were the Northerner’s favorite, while the Mouser preferred his ladies slim and waif-like like himself. Fafhrd shrugged, returning to the arm wrestling match. He had wagered on a swarthy newcomer, a sailor whose lean, ropey muscle strained against a bald-pated favorite. 

The sailor bested his opponent just as Fafhrd expected. He collected his winnings as the next pair sat down. Four bouts later, the sisters returned with the Mouser between them, hooded and cloaked from crown to floor. Lured by fresh jugs of wine, a party of men and women were uprooted as the trio pulled their tables together and climbed up. Servers swept debris onto trays, while Kumailian, drummer and friend to the Eel’s regulars, took a seat nearby. 

The sisters were garbed in full dancing silks and bells, Saleana in shimmering red and Caleen in glittering gold. Their blond hair, piled high in elaborate headdresses, made them nearly a foot taller than the Mouser. Braids entwined with metal and cheap jewels trailed to their waists. They flanked the cat, who dropped his cloak to reveal mostly himself; barefoot with no tunic, not even a vest, and plain, transparent harem silks over a dark but scanty loincloth. Those nearby either gasped or snickered, though the trio’s so-serious demeanor stilled that fast. Fafhrd recognized the likeness to Natarajan, lord of the dance and liberator of souls. One of the gods of Lankhmar – as opposed to the gods in Lankhmar – he was known for his dance of destruction and rebirth. A sword of flame in one hand, wristlet and rings of bells on the other, Natarajan stomped old worlds into ruin and brought new life to the next.

Fafhrd shook his head. With a flair for theatrics even stronger than his own, the Mouser was utterly shameless on stage though, dreaded Kos, he may have gone too far this time. The jewels were on full display up there, especially that sweet, round ass. The rest of his body was as taut and firm as a racehorse, although Fafhrd had never felt the urge to bite into one of those. There would be repercussions from this night’s excursion – and Fafhrd promised himself he would never let the cat live them down. 

The Mouser’s weapons, Scalpel and Cats Claw, were secured in their customary fashion in a plain leather belt slung over his hips. No longer the jester, he had become eldritch in a way only his closest companions – and enemies – knew him to be. Dark, unruly locks framed a heart-shaped face with snub-nose, arched brows and gold-flecked eyes kholed to accent their slight upturn. Fafhrd drank in the high cheekbones, strong jaw and imp’s chin; lips rouged an inviting wine, the perfect complement to creamed-gavah skin. Black sigals and scars crisscrossed arms and legs, torso and back, bringing another touch of the wyrd, distinguishing slender male beauty so different from the women beside him. 

The three remained silent until the chatter died. Kumailian began a rattling, building beat that fell into a sharp tribal rhythm. The trio echoed with a solid, unified heel stomp and the dance began. Precise steps, arm and hand movements – rituals learned during every child's youth – accompanied the roll and jut of hips. Torsos rippled, the women’s fleshy and inviting, the Mouser’s sharp and defined. Their arms twined ‘round each other’s, straining to a fingertip parting. The sisters writhed, proud and strong, celebrating a life-giving strength, the Mouser sinuous between them demonstrating a flexibility no human male should have. Gliding forward, Saleana and Caleen beckoned with mischievous eyes, smiling lips and bunched breasts. The Mouser backed away in a slow spin. He dropped into a crouch until he was on his knees, arms raised, fingers snapping and bells ringing. A downward sweep brought him back to his feet and prowling forward like a sleek jungle cat, hands fisted to claws, then slashing out at those who crowded the table. 

Startled, their audience drew back – and surged forward again. A woman began a ululating howl from the rear; another joined her. Others clapped in rhythm. This was Cheapside, home to Lankhmar’s most rugged elements, and the audience expected to participate. Two more musicians pushed through; Riza, playing her harp like a zither, and a newcomer – one from the caravan no doubt – with a flute. The sisters became serpents charmed by its melody, while the Mouser pulled Scalpel and Cats Claw from his belt, spiraling on one foot, crossing blades overhead. 

_“Hear with your heart, O warriors!”_ Riza chanted in a deep, wine-thick voice. _“My blades are covered in blood, my body filthy with its rust. My Soul carries the pain of a thousand wounds. Yet I rise, again and again to walk among the living. Who stands with me?”_

She went on, adding more verses to the tale of the eternal warrior, while One-eye’s servers delivered more and more ale and wine. Others left their games to peer overtop the crowd that had gathered. Saleana and Caleen’s serpents transformed into dragons, their scarves snapping like gossamer wings. The Mouser slashed and lunged between red and gold, blades glittering under the flicker of oil lamps.

Showing off moves from his practice forms, a complicated ritual in itself Fafhrd noted. The Mouser slid beneath the leg of each girl in turn as they wove around him. That spurred applause until he leapt up into a full, mid-air split, bringing groans from the men and cheers from the women. Fafhrd beamed proudly. 

Teven Drake, also called “Mingolsbane” from his time in the marines and the Mingol Wars, leaned close. “What are you smiling about?” he asked. 

“Anyone would think they’d been practicing together for a lifetime,” Fafhrd replied with a grin. 

“They haven’t?” 

“‘Course not. He’s drunk and they’re persuasive.”

“They could persuade me all right. All three of ‘em, even your boy and I don’t usually run that way.” 

Fafhrd shot him a look. “The Mouser is no ‘boy.’ He’s man enough to take us both.” 

“You’re serious.” 

“I am.” He chuckled again. “I am never going to let him forget this.”

Onstage, it appeared the Mouser was now bending himself in two. Backwards. 

“I can’t do that,” Drake choked, wiping the foam from his beard. “I would never think to do that. Doesn’t he have bones, joints?”

“They don’t seem quite as attached as other’s,” Fafhrd explained, well aware of the commander’s newfound interest. “It’s all sinew, like a cat’s. He learned young.” 

“Uh-huh … I guess you’d know.” Drake tried again. He was still a handsome man, only a foot shorter than the Fafhrd, with black, silver-streaked hair and forked beard. It seemed possible he’d never known any other clothing save a uniform. “It doesn’t bother you to see him out there like that? Isn’t this where you say you’ll kill the man who touches him?”

“Not at all. I’m perfectly willing to stand back and let the Mouser kill the fool himself.” 

As if to prove the point, a drunk who had worked his way to the table, reached out and grabbed the Mouser by his ankle. The cat, standing on one foot, had made a perfect vertical line from the flat of his foot to his leg overhead. 

“Let’s have a fuck, darling,” the heckler chortled. “Show me that’s not just padding between those legs.”

The Mouser arched a brow and shot the stranger an evil “come hither” smile. Fafhrd knew that expression too well. He folded his arms across his chest and waited. 

“You couldn’t handle me, _darling,_ ” the Mouser purred, swinging his leg down at the drunk’s head. He pulled the blow at the last second, only tapping the forehead with the ball of his foot. It was enough to send the drunk sprawling and into a short skid. Onlookers roared as the offender tried to prop himself up, dumbstruck. Hellbent and Talon, the Eel’s muscle men, arrived to carry him off. The Mouser laughed, too, singling out Fafhrd’s voice among the crowd. He wheeled and let Cats Claw fly to hit point first in the post by his sword-mate’s head. Message delivered. Saleana and Caleen closed on either side of him transforming from dragons to tigresses. 

“I see what you mean,” Drake said. “Inspires great loyalty for such a little man. I suppose he mostly dances for you?” 

“I suppose that’s none of your business,” Fafhrd said, eyes going cold. 

The commander held up his hand, palm out. “My apologies, I go too far. Blame the drink and – ” He pointed at the trio. 

Fafhrd nodded, pulling Cats Claw from the post and securing it in his belt. The show was winding down until, like it began, the music and dancers came to a sudden stop. Saleana and Caleen fell to their knees, gazing out in haughty appeal. The Mouser spun to a halt between them, lunging with Scalpel on point. The tableau froze. 

There came that moment of complete silence that follows a good show, followed by a cacophony of released joy. Coins and tokens showered the makeshift stage, raining on dancers and musicians alike. Breathless, the Mouser and the sisters covered their heads. Tribute or not, metal hurt when it landed. Hellbent and Talon returned to carry the sisters off to the bar as Fafhrd made his way to the Mouser. The cat saw him and launched himself, throwing arms and legs around his sword-mate. 

The force of it nearly drove the air from his lungs, but Fafhrd held on. The Mouser’s body was slick with sweat like after a good fight or sex, his breath fast and hard, eyes shining behind the kohl. In the next second, he dove in for a kiss like a man drowning, staggering Fafhrd another step backwards until Hellbent reappeared to brace and escort them to the shelter of the bar. The Mouser was disinclined to stop, so Fafhrd set him on the surface. He was aware of those who slapped him on the back; the Mouser, too. There was praise, good wishes and offers of drink, yet for the moment it seemed they were alone. 

“You saw!” the Mouser crowed.

“I did,” Fafhrd returned, laughing. “So did half of Lankhmar. And the other half will swear they did come nightfall.” 

The Mouser leaned in, pressing his forehead to Fafhrd’s. “I wasn’t sure … I always play the clown,” he panted. “I’ve never … but Caleen and Saleana – they dared me. I guess I had too much to drink.”

“Or just enough, we may never be sure.” 

The Mouser was never one for false modesty. “Mm … It was perfect.” 

“Thank Kos for that. You could have taken my eye out with that dagger.”

“As if I’d miss, you great oaf!”

Laughing breathlessly, the Mouser recaptured Fafhrd’s mouth spoiling further conversation. He felt somewhat disembodied, caught between the bar beneath his ass and the ceiling, yet held in place by a man he loved above all others, even himself. 

“At least give me a chance to sell tickets,” Mother Mort growled behind them. She was the Eel’s proprietress with her husband, Liam One-eye. “If not, you’ve a room upstairs.” 

Reluctantly, the sword-mates pulled back from each other. Mother lessened her chide by handing each a full tankard of the Eel’s best brown ale. Fafhrd pulled Cats Claw from his belt and smoothly re-homed it in the Mouser’s scabbard. “Upstairs sounds good,” he murmured. 

It does.” The Mouser chugged the last of his drink. He grabbed fistfuls of Fafhrd’s hair, gently pulling him in for one last, quick kiss. “I could come on the bar right now,” he hissed in the Northerner’s ear. “Wonder what Mother would charge for that?”

“Your hide. Mine, too.” Fafhrd grinned. “Let’s go.” 

“I want my own clothes,” he said, jumping down. “Back in a breath.” 

“I’ll get some food,” Fafhrd called after him. “If there’s any left to be had …” 

He called to a server; then accepted another ale. As guessed, there wasn’t much left in the kitchen but Fafhrd had it sent to their room with jugs of wine and water. Then continued to wait, heaving a great sigh and setting in for the duration. It was easier to trust the Mouser to miss his own funeral than arrive as planned, even for a roll between the sheets. The barbarian shook himself, making his customary sign against evil. What was wrong with him? He knew better than to call bad luck. 

“Fafhrd!” Saleana’s scream alerted him to true misgiving. She ran toward him, shoving through bystanders like a small battering ram. Fafhrd rushed to meet her, catching her before she fell. “The men of the Phantom Coach – they came. It was here!” she sobbed. “They took Caleen, they took the Mouser, and they tried to take me, too, but I hid – and I ran.”

“Slow down,” Fafhrd urged. “Tell me what happened?”

“They were waiting for us in the dressing room, appearing like ghosts from the walls ... their heads … like skulls!” Shock left her trembling uncontrollably. Tears ran down her face in trails of black. Fafhrd spotted bruising on her face; she’d fought to get away.

“How many?”

“Three in the room. Another outside.” 

“So at least four.” Drake appeared at his side. Three of his men who had joined him for the evening appeared as well.

“The Mouser fought them, that’s when I hid.” Saleana sobbed. “But they hit him and took him! And Caleen, my sister …!” 

“You’re sure it was the Phantom?” Drake demanded.

“Yes, yes!” 

“Who else could it be?” Fafhrd snapped. “We’re in its path. 

The two men exchanged glances. The Phantom Coach had arrived soon after the ships and caravan, though neither would claim ownership. It had first been spotted near Pinchbeck Alley where young women and youths had disappeared, leaving no trace behind, its mysterious comings and goings shrouded in supernatural dread. Cadaverous coachmen had been spotted as it disappeared into the thick, early morning fog. Pulled by a pair of black geldings, it rolled along as quiet as a ghost. Most were too afraid to follow and those who tried found nothing. It was as if a pit of hell had opened and swallowed all. Lankhmar was home to too many wizards and witches who could bespell others, conjure spirits and much worse. The blackest magic required blood, as the Mouser could attest. Had the missing become pawns in some evil sorcery or, more practically, merchandise? There was always a market for slaves in Lankhmar and beyond. 

The first outcry came from the eastside citizens whose children were taken first, bringing the city watch and its soldiers out to sweep the streets. A connection between the new visitors and the coach seemed obvious, but official inquiries found no answers and urged tolerance for the guests who lined Lankhmar’s pockets with gifts and taxes. Yet more and more disappeared, hunting further east for its prey. This was an improvement, at least to the city council. If some must disappear, better they were taken from Cheapside, home to beggars and rogues.

Drake, who now commanded house guards instead of marines, prepared to lead his men to the dressing rooms. Fafhrd grasped his shoulder, bringing him to a halt. “No use going there,” he said. “They’re already on the run. Into the night we go. We’ll branch out and search.”

“How will you know where to look?” Drake demanded. 

Fafhrd was already shoving his way to the exit. “You can still follow a trail, can’t you?” 

“But the watch has searched for days – ”

“The watch has put on a show,” Fafhrd snapped. “They care nothing for Cheapside’s terrors.” 

Growls of agreement rose around him. A mix of toughs, whores and others of the Silver Eel were quick to follow Fafhrd outside. Some were curious, but most were angry, inflamed by a bitter and longstanding itch. Fafhrd and Drake found the first body at the alley leading to the Eel’s back end. It was no specter, only a tall, thin man of muscle disguised as a ghoul’s shadow. Fafhrd recognized the Mouser’s work at a glance. He followed tracks to the place where the coach had waited. Another man-ghoul lay on the ground, leg slashed and still bleeding, but alive. 

Drake hauled him to his feet. A skull of grease paint, ash and khol stared back. “Answer me, scum. Where were they taken?” he demanded. 

A pallor of fear and pain covered the face behind the disguise; the man shook his head wildly. Drake’s knife flashed and an ear fell to the ground. “I didn’t hear you,” he growled, placing his blade at the captive’s eye. 

“Stop!” Fafhrd elbowed in, forcing clamped jaws open. “No tongue,” he said. “Here’s the reason we hear no words.”

Darkness surrounded them, as oppressive as the Cheapside stench. Drake scowled, lifting his blade as if to drive it through the skull-faced lackey. “Lead us to your prize, silent one. Do it now and live.” 

When the prisoner hesitated, Fafhrd jerked his head at the commander. “Hey! All he’ll do is kill you,” he said, glowering. He took a length of clean linen from the wallet at his belt to bind the man’s bloody thigh, fierce sea-green eyes glowering. “On the other hand, l will gift you with a level of pain that will make your nightmares seem like paradise. Understand? Your true ghost will never find its rest. This, I swear to you. Now take us to them!”

Fist ‘round his bicep, Drake shoved the prisoner forward, Fafhrd beside them. “They must have padded the wheels and hooves to keep the coach silent,” he said, his long stride setting a brisk pace. 

“Mud and trash would muffle sound as well.” 

“It would.” Drake agreed, then almost chuckled. “So, I guess this answers the question. You will kill the man who harms him.”

“ _Kos' vrede,_ are you that eager for death?” Fafhrd snarled. “Would you not do the same for your men? And what of Caleen? The Mouser left us a trail and a guide. The least we can do is follow.” 

“I meant no offense –”

“Then shut up, Teven! I am in no mood to banter.” 

“Don’t order me, barbarian. I find no humor in this,” the commander snapped. “I came into this world in another’s blood. I have no problem going out the same way. Soldiers may not always win, but they always fight.”

Fafhrd lifted a brow, but remained silent. True, soldiers fought; many fought well, but outlaws applied different rules and so did a mob, whose numbers increased as they marched into the westside. He spared them no thought; Fafhrd had only one grail in this night’s enterprise. 

He wasn't surprised to find they were headed towards the caravan's encampment. Fafhrd pulled Heartseeker from its sheath, wishing he had Graywand at his side. Well, any found weapon could be used in such circumstances. He was certain there would be plenty of those and soon. More than that, he wanted the Mouser. 

**  
FAFHRD SAT beside the Mouser on the bed keeping a careful distance between them. The cat had been made prisoner the night before. Most likely, he would not tolerate even the most careless touch now that he was awake and aware.

“You remember now,” Fafhrd said; it was no question. 

“Yes. What you say – it fills in most of the dark spots,” he whispered, numbed by memory. “At first, all I could think was ‘tight quarters.’ In the Eel, when I found the sisters, _tight quarters…”_

The Mouser had walked in on men wearing horrific disguise who were trying to take his friends. He drew Scalpel quickly, driving up through belly and liver of one, and slashing at another and using all caution to avoid the girls. It was a curiously silent exchange. THe whipped around at a movement to his right only to find a gloved palm followed by a cloud of the poppy. It burst in his face making him gasp and choke. The Mouser swiped his eyes with the back of his fist. Then came a wicked blow to the back of his head, followed by hands catching him as he fell. Scalpel was torn from his grasp and he was dragged away, spirited through the window with Caleen. Head filled with waves of color and illusion, the cat felt night’s cold breath on his skin. Issek’s Jug, there was more than opium in that mix. But Caleen’s muffled cry – pain-fueled fear – pierced through and he struggled back to awareness. 

He still had Cat’s Claw. In the street, the Mouser twisted ‘round his captor like his namesake drawing the dagger. He curled under the man’s arm rather than drop to the ground; then stabbed, pushing up into the heart and sliding to his feet as the man-ghoul fell. Half blind, the Mouser lashed out again, feeling a hit shudder up his arm. But then came another blow. He neither saw nor felt anything afterward, not for what seemed a long while, not until he’d opened his eyes in the tent. A sudden slash of pain woke him to liveried guards circling a dais inside a vast, white expanse where delicate orbs of light hung from the ceiling illuminating every corner. The trappings were beyond lavish, a wide expanse of brocade and silk and rich accouterments fit for a king. The Mouser felt the thick plush of carpet against his skin and rope, lots and lots of rope, and knew he couldn’t move. He dare not move. 

**  
FAFHRD MARCHED into the caravan’s encampment with what seemed all of Cheapside around him, many carrying torches and weapons be it sword or cobblestone. Their fury surged as they rushed the tents, seeking their own; others in pursuit of loot. He hastened to quell his rage; Fafhrd couldn’t afford the luxury.

To his credit, Drake and his men were still at his side. He might now be only commander of a house guard, a defender of the rich and their estates, but the former marine had earned his rank with fists, sword and wit. Still, both understood that even if he spent his pay on Cheapside drink and gambling, there were lines he dare not cross. Not if he would remain a citizen. Fafhrd ground his teeth. Again he craved the Mouser’s presence beside him. It should have been the cat with him; he would have loved this gambit to destroy the Phantom’s evil. Yet in a way, wasn’t it the Mouser who had begun this venture? And what of that dance – was there more at work tonight in the Silver Eel? Like its fogs, an excess of magic drifted over the ancient streets of Lankhmar and the cat had a gift for it, drawing it to him like the street cats that became his friends. 

For himself, Fafhrd found his prize in the great white tent, quarters of the caravan’s shalatu. It had beckoned him like the glow of a small moon, coaxing him into its depths. With Heartseeker in one hand, a salvaged halberd in the other, he tore aside the drapes at its entrance. Guards inside stood in his way – at least a dozen, well-armed and strong. With Drake behind him, Fafhrd met their attack, advancing through swords and blows that would have felled a less determined warrior. More of the night’s chant echoed in his heart: _“Hear me with your soul, O warriors. I strike, I bleed. I never back down and I never turn back. Find me at dawn, fight me till nightfall. I am the heart and the storm, and I slay till my last breath. Stand with me or die.”_

The last of them dropped near the Mouser, where he lay curled on his side bound tight in golden rope from ankles to knees, wrists to elbows, his legs and hands tied together behind him. A noose ‘round his throat linked all, tightening at the slightest movement. The shalatu, garbed in black robes, loomed over him, a thin, bone handled crop in one hand, a bird’s yard-long plume in the other. A slave crouched at his feet, hands covering his face and quaking in fear; he tended a golden brazier where a brand glowed among the flames. 

The master’s face was lean and hard, with dark, soulless eyes that spoke of a ruthless climb to power. He drew his scimitar, attempting to stare Fafhrd down as he stepped off the dais; he was used to others falling before him and obeying his orders. Except Fafhrd’s charge never faltered. He lunged, swinging the halberd, its length now shortened by half, in one unrelenting sweep that severed head from body. It lifted in a bloody arc, soaring across the tent as the slave master fell. Within the next heartbeat, Fafhrd was at the Mouser’s side, slicing through the rope around his neck. 

The cat trembled under Fafhrd’s hands, drawing in quick, frantic breaths as he was freed. Small lash marks on his upper arm and leg burned. So did the long, ugly one across his ribs, but the freedom to breathe was paradise. Fafhrd’s bloodstained hands alternately soothed and cut, careful not to slash dusky skin in their haste. Afterward, Fafhrd brought him up, holding him close, tucking the Mouser’s head against his shoulder, noting pinprick pupils surrounded by golden brown. The cat allowed himself to be comforted in his sword-mate’s arms. “I knew you would come,” he whispered, closing his eyes as he sought control of fading, drug-induced visions. 

“I have you,” Fafhrd assured him calmly, chafing arms and legs back into circulation. 

Sword in hand, Drake towered over them, watching. “Blood and tears,” he rasped. “It seems there’s no one left alive.”

Fafhrd looked up. “Only the ones who matter.” 

Alarmed, the Mouser raised his head. “Caleen, is she all right? And what of Saleana?” 

“Have no fear, little man. It was Saleana who alerted us to the trouble, she is well. Caleen is in the corner there with Drake’s men,” Fafhrd said. “They had no reason to harm her.” 

“I got in the way. Killed one in the dressing room, another outside the Eel.” The Mouser took in the blood spray covering Fafhrd’s body. “You’ve been fighting, too.” 

Fafhrd put his arm around the Mouser’s waist, bringing him to his feet. “Yes.”

“You’re not hurt?” 

“No. Only a nick or three.”

The cat attempted a small laugh. “The shalatu was enraged that I’d killed his men and made hash of his plans. But worse – I defied him. The villain had no sense of humor.” He slid his arm around Fafhrd, trying to steady himself. “These drugs … Will I remember any of this tomorrow?”

“Maybe, maybe not. I’ll remember for you,” Fafhrd promised heading toward the blood grimed exit. Drake followed with his men and Caleen. Gone was the dancing siren from earlier in the evening, though she held on gamely. She smiled when the Mouser reached for her hand. 

“We’re alive,” she gasped in wonder, squeezing his in return. “But it will be better once we leave this place.”

“A strong heart,” Drake said. “But it won’t save us from the watch. Hear that horn? They’re on their way.”

“There must be a stable,” Fafhrd said. 

They hastened into a world of chaos. The mob had retrieved its own and released others. Next came the looting and torching of tents amidst the approaching hoofbeats of Lankhmar’s soldiers – so close. It took but a few anxious minutes to find the shalatu’s stable, his horses and pack animals as well as that tribute to misery, the Phantom Coach. Fafhrd glared at it until one of Drake’s men darted forward, torch in hand and determination in his eyes. 

“No – let it stay,” Fafhrd barked. “Guard it with your lives!”

Drake turned on him. He was overtired, angry, and he’d taken too many orders. Now this man would direct his men. Fafhrd stood firm. “Don’t you see? The people must find this; the Overlord and council must acknowledge it. Or would you have Lankhmar’s soldiers raze Cheapside altogether? It will go badly enough for them as it is.”

“You talk sense again, damn it. Still, I’d rather see it burn.” 

“As would I.” Fafhrd made his way to the pair of matched geldings.

The Mouser, still searching for coordination, lurched forward, wrapping his arms around the neck of the closest steed. “I can ride,” he announced, more confident than he felt. “I can’t walk, but I can ride. Faf, you must take Caleen.”

Still glowering, Drake snatched up a wide, fringed shawl and tied it around the Mouser’s hips, knotting it at his waist. “This will make for an easier ride,” he said, lifting him up onto the horse. 

The cat flashed him a smile, instinctively finding his balance and grasping the horse’s mane. “Many thanks,” he said.

“Think nothing of it.” Drake's palm lingered, caught by the Mouser’s warm, silk clad leg. Then abruptly turned away.

Fafhrd’s eyes narrowed as he mounted the second horse. Both he and the Mouser could easily ride bareback and, in this case, there was no other option. Drake’s man carefully placed Caleen before him; Fafhrd held her securely in place. 

“We part here, barbarian,” Drake said gruffly. “Safe journeys.” 

Fafhrd nodded, extending his hand. “Go with whatever gods you favor.” 

Teven Drake grasped his arm; then released it. Except Fafhrd held on, bending low. “You have done both him and me a great service tonight. I owe you. Now hear this – don’t grasp at forbidden fruit. That peach is taken, understand?”

Drake snatched his hand back, eyes blazing. “Get out of here and take your gray cat with you. May our paths never cross again, barbarian.” 

“Never this side of Lankhmar,” Fafhrd promised and spurred his mount toward the east, the Mouser close behind.

**  
THE MOUSER followed Fafhrd giving his horse its head. At first, all he did was hold on until his mind cleared further. With none to stand in their way, they reached the Silver Eel in record time. His arms and legs strengthened during the ride, enough so that he could stand and walk on his own at the dismount. He followed Fafhrd, carrying Caleen, as they made their way inside. The great room stood empty, except for Mother and One-eye near the bar. Hellbent and Talon hovered beside Saleana like two well-groomed, clean shaven monsters dressed in black. The dancer leapt to her feet and rushed to greet them as they entered, throwing her arms around her sister. Fafhrd delivered her into Talon’s care and jerked his head at the stairs, where he and the Mouser intended to disappear. No one lingered to chat. Within seconds, the Eel’s door was twice-barred, leaving the main room apparently empty and silent. 

Near twilight the following day, the Mouser remained sitting on the bed, arms wrapped around himself fitting memory fragments together until events, at last, made sense. Every now and then, for good or ill, the gods of Lankhmar cleaned house. He could no longer deny the geas that had claimed them all. It wasn’t the first time he and Fafhrd had been made into puppets; it probably wouldn’t be the last. 

Fafhrd, sitting quietly beside him, finally said, “Is there anything I can do?”

The Mouser shook his head. 

“May I touch you?”

The cat drew in a soft breath. “That you would ask …” He slid closer to Fafhrd, wrapping his arms around him. “I am yours, Faf, for whatever that’s worth. I owe you my life – again.”

“You would do the same for me.” 

“I have. And I will – always … always.” Heart in his throat, the Mouser struggled for words. “There were too many unwanted hands on me last night. Never yours.”

He drew Fafhrd’s head to his shoulder, smoothing long, red-gold hair. “Let me care for you now,” he pleaded. “Not because you deserve it – though that’s true – but because I want to. I need this.”

Fafhrd held him back; he buried his face in the Mouser’s shoulder. Silence spun out between them as the cat continued to soothe him. The sting of hot tears spilled from Fafhrd’s eyes onto the Mouser’s skin. They remained like that for a long while until Fafhrd calmed; the Mouser as well. 

“We are filthy and we need baths. Food, too.” The Mouser released his sword-mate with a lingering kiss, underwhelmed by the taste of dried blood and old sweat. He knew the condition too well; all that mattered was they were still alive and together. He stood and strode to the door. Once outside and moving quickly, the cat spied Mother Mort below from midway the stairs. “Can you have the baths prepared?” he called. “Get us food and light wine?”

“Are you ever going to wear clothes again?” she returned, scowling. 

Too tired and overwrought for banter, the Mouser did not rise to the occasion. “How are the sisters?” he asked.

“Bumped, bruised and weepy, but they’ll dance again. And you, harem prince?”

“Well enough, but no more dancing for me.”

“Why not?” she demanded. “You earned good coin. The boys gathered your share; I have it in keeping.” 

“Because one riot in a lifetime is enough.” The ghost of a smile flickered across fine, dark features. “Another would be excessive, don’t you think?” 

“Those who rule Lankhmar do, certainly the watch. They prowl Cheapside in search of stray cats and barbarian dogs,” she returned. “Without much success.”

The Mouser swallowed a rush of alarm. “Were they here?”

“They came looking, but as it turns out, no one has seen you. Not since you and the brute went galloping out the South Gate early this morning.”

“Our eternal thanks, most wise and generous of women.” The Mouser issued a courtly bow. “From both of us.”

“Not that generous,” she sniffed. “The price of those black mounts will cover the bribe – which was steep, I might add. Liam and I will take the rest.”

“As your reward.”

“It’s only fair,” Mother agreed. “Food and drink will come. The bath is ready. Water’s been on the boil for a while so be careful as you use it. Oh, by the way. We found Scalpel in the dressing room. It will be brought to your room.”

“Again, many thanks.” 

“Quit your bowing and scraping. Bathe yourself – and put on some clothes!”

In happy agreement, the Mouser turned back for their room and Fafhrd. 

**  
THE KING of his domain, the Gray Mouser entered the Silver Eel’s bath with Fafhrd, still subdued, close behind. This was his palace, a separate room containing one of the most sensual of pleasures and a lock for privacy. He wasn’t alone in his love of the bath. Mother Mort, recognizing potential profit, had created a wonderland. She knew the comforts men sought, having once owned and operated a lucrative brothel. Any tavern could boast clean rooms and beds, good drink and food. The Eel had a haven in tile and copper with the city’s best rogues to support it.

Fafhrd swore the cat would rather boil himself alive in the Eel’s copper tub than eat, even if starving. If any sought favor from the Gray Mouser, it was best to do so after The Bath, which he now inspected in excruciating detail. Two servants scurried to light incense and candles, arrange furniture, and place towels. The Mouser selected soaps and oils, checked the heat and depth of the water beneath the tub’s wooden cover, and instructed placement of wine and food – hot bread, cheese and olives, a clay vessel of stewed chicken, pork and root vegetables – to his satisfaction. Royalty in rags, he dismissed the men, locking the door afterward. 

Fafhrd began to smile again. His sword-mate was putting on a show designed for his entertainment, and he was happy enough to be a one-man audience stripping clothes away like cares, and dropping them into an untidy pile. The Mouser tasked himself with removing Fafhrd’s boots having divested himself of sword belt and what remained of his dancer’s silks. He poured goblets of wine, and delivered a promising kiss on Fafhrd’s upturned face.

“Revive yourself, _shaqiq,_ ” he murmured against the Northerner's lips. “As I said, you must allow me attend you.”

“My pleasure,” Fafhrd returned feeling color rise in his cheeks. He swallowed the contents of the cup, which was promptly refilled. He wondered, not for the first time, how the Mouser could do this – spin a grown man into a blush with only the tone of his voice?

The Mouser chuckled, downing his own wine. Turning to the mirror, he cleaned smeared kohl and muck from his face with an oiled cloth, then a dry one, and stepped into a wooden tub positioned within Fafhrd’s easy reach. He mixed hot water and cold to his liking and poured a pitcher over himself, emitting a gasp and a short-lived cry of relief. Then again. He scrubbed away at his hair and body, erasing the dross of the night’s events. For a time, he forgot himself completely.

Yet soon enough, he shot Fafhrd a clear beam of invitation. “Touch me any time you like,” he purred. “Anywhere you like.”

“I would not spoil the show. Pray continue,” Fafhrd returned, but acquiesced seconds later, drawn by his sword-mate’s lure. He oiled and scraped the cat’s back after the Mouser turned imploring eyes over his shoulder. The temptation was too great, and one which Fafhrd could not resist. Lips and tongue followed his hands. He always expected the flavor of cinnamon from the cat’s faint, red cast, but no. There was only the delight of fine-pored flesh and the slight imperfections of old wounds.

Their journey to the beggar city of Tovilyis some years ago was a disappointment the Mouser buried like other hurts. He had been told he was born in the land of beggars and hub of Newhon’s slave trade. But search as they might, they found nothing to match his faint memories or the stories he'd heard. Perhaps, they reasoned, the cat was member to another group, one whose dark skin held a kiss of red, and eyes more gold than brown. 

Born into slavery, the Mouser was a skinny imp of a child with cheekbones that gave him the look of a skeleton. But as he grew older, the cat began to fill out. His features were fine and perfectly proportioned even with his small, upturned nose. Despite his near child-like stature, his limbs were long and lean, with nothing squat or round about him like those of Tovilyis. He’d had no home save Lankhmar’s streets and pleasure dens; not even a true name. He was simply Mouse, child of circumstance, who was eventually transformed into the Gray Mouser, named so by Glavos Rho, father of his own choosing. The old hedge wizard proclaimed his apprentice neither black or white, evil or good, but one meant to walk between both worlds, a Gray Mouser and always on the hunt.

The cat was proud, though sometimes secretly ashamed, to be with Fafhrd for there were times he was too aware of his street-stray heritage. Fafhrd was the man worth all the gold in Newhon. No one feature made him handsome; snow-fair skin that required protection from the sun; blazing red-gold hair and sea green eyes, surely gifts from the gods because a standing Fafhrd could touch the sky. Shoulders and chest, arms and legs were strong and powerful. His chest and torso a mix of curves and plains so solid a man might hurt himself should he try to hit him, and most of it covered with a fine pelt of hair as soft as fur.

Fafhrd was as close to a prince that any man could be among his Northern clan. He climbed mountains and towers with the dexterity of a snow cat and fought like ten wolves. Few were his equal with bow or ax, and his skill with a sword was unsurpassed save for the Mouser's, whose speed and agility trumped all. Both could switch sword hands in an instant and use them with deadly grace. They trained to hone their abilities, pitting themselves against each other. Fafhrd was also a trained skald with a strong, sweet tenor that belied his deeper speaking voice; a scholar, with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, twin to his sword-mate’s. How could anyone who knew the man call him a barbarian?

The Mouser arched his back, savoring Fafhrd’s heightened efforts. It was impossible to remain still, but the Northerner grasped his hips, kneeling and reaching around to cock and balls. The Mouser closed his hand over Fafhrd’s. “I won’t last,” he gasped. 

“You said I could touch you anywhere, any time.” Fafhrd bent his head to graze the peach so many had admired the night before. 

The Mouser bit back a sharp, tiny moan falling into the rhythm of the oiled fist on him. Fafhrd felt the first tremor began deep in his root and the Mouser’s effort to hold it back. He bit into the prize before him, just hard enough to mark, and the Mouser came with a welcoming cry, grasping Fafhrd’s wrist. A wave of triumph roared over the barbarian; this was better and cleaner than any kill. 

They traded places, unwilling to end the enchantment of touch. Fafhrd stepped into a clean tub so the Mouser could provide similar ablutions, alternately bathing and caressing, murmuring loving words and snatches of song. Their intimacy was so complete it shattered all other connections. They had often speculated on the possibilities of reincarnation; that they might be two halves of a whole, transported to an infinite number of lives and worlds again and again. Ningauble of the Seven Eyes, Gossiper of the Gods and Fafhrd’s sorcerous master, had hinted as much speaking of the duo’s connection to the Elder Gods. Information the Gray Mouser’s Sheelba of the Eyeless Face, for once, did not refute. Battle and adventure united the sword-mates into one, with this unfathomable, electrifying charge of pleasure their reward. They were also driven to scatter their seed among wondrous and frequently supernatural women, perhaps to spawn future hosts somewhere between time and worlds. That sparked speculation that could only be addressed in awed whispers under the cloak of night and stars. Still, it was comforting to believe they would always return to each other. 

The Gray Mouser took his time with Fafhrd’s body, restoring himself even more in the process. With soap and nimble fingers, he cleaned away blood and dirt. He carefully washed Fafhrd’s hair, pausing only to open the door and call for more hot water. The Northerner crouched in the wooden tub, arms at rest along the rim, while the Mouser combed his hair and carefully massaged warmed, healing oil into his skin. The kettles were refreshed and the cat locked the door again, returning to his pleasures. 

Removing the cover of the copper tub, they eased into its depth, facing each other. Scented heat calmed sore muscles and wounds. That both had escaped without serious damage was another gift. Too famished to talk, they consumed the food set on nearby tables with ravenous speed, digging into the clay pot, and stuffing chunks of bread into each other’s mouths. Goblets were forsaken as they shared one bottle of wine after another. In time, neither could do more than loll back in the liquid heat and gaze at each other, sated and drowsy. 

“What was that exchange between you and Drake?” the Mouser asked, running the arch of his foot up and down Fafhrd’s leg. “It looked serious.” 

“Just a small caution.” Fafhrd shrugged. “Mingolsbane has discovered a sudden passion for peaches and cream. As a friend, I but warned him of the dangers of fruit out of season.”

“Teven Drake? The man is as predictable as noon. He only lusts for women.”

“Apparently, that has changed. You could barely stand yet he put his hands on you.”

“He put me on the horse.” The Mouser chuckled, drawing Fafhrd’s foot onto his lap. “Anyway, battle brings heat to most afterward.” 

“His began about the time you hit that drunk in the face with your foot.”

”Oh.” The Mouser cupped Fafhrd’s heel, applying body weight and fingers to comfort overused muscles and tendons. “You do realize I can handle these things myself?”

“I know,” Fafhrd sighed, contented. “I merely hoped to save him from your blade. He’s been a good friend and I owe him for last night.”

 _“Mm…”_ The Mouser shook his head. “Drake’s a prize, straightforward and true, steady job. I know others who would be happy to pleasure such a man, someone more suited to his nature.”

“You should keep your distance,” Fafhrd warned mildly. “Drake plays on the fringe. Let him work it out himself.”

The Mouser nodded. He finished rubbing Fafhrd's feet having raised each one to his mouth to leave a kiss on the arch. Mischief and affection sparkling over his imp’s grin as he further parted Fafhrd’s legs, working his way forward massaging calves and thighs as he went. Fafhrd hooked his ankles around the cat’s waist, bringing him in as the Mouser did the same. His hands closed on the Northerner’s hardening cock.

“This could become complicated.” Fafhrd raised an eyebrow. “One of us could drown.” 

“Not if you stand. The water’s gone too cool anyway.” 

“There’s that,” Fafhrd conceded, rolling his shoulders and setting a tidal wave of muscle in motion. He grasped the sides of the tub and heaved himself up on well-tended feet. 

The Mouser followed in a more predatory fashion. Once outside the tub, he grabbed a towel and threw it around Fafhrd’s shoulders. He tousled the wealth of red-gold hair; then wiped down shoulders and back in the hard, rough way they both liked. He crouched, finishing with the legs, then took Fafhrd’s shaft in hand, bringing him to full hardness. Fafhrd growled low as the first wave of warm breath fell against him. The cat dipped his head, lapping the slit and drinking in the first clear bead of pre-release. His fingers teased the crease at his sword-mate’s rear.

The Mouser smiled. “Do you like that?” 

Fafhrd shivered. “I think I’m going to come.”

“Well, don’t.” Fingers tightened around the base of Fafhrd’s cock. “Not yet.” 

“What if I can’t help it?” 

“Then you’ll be sorry.”

“How … sorry?” 

“Very.” The flat of his tongue dragged along the thick vein below. The Mouser paused, peering up. “Would you like me to stop?”

“No!” Fafhrd’s hands dug into slim shoulders. 

The little fiend laughed. Fafhrd glowered until mouth and hands began to play again. The Mouser cupped his balls, rolling them in his palm until the Northerner groaned. “Are you really going to make me stand here?”

“Maybe …” The cat’s dark head butted gently against Fafhrd’s lower belly as he took him in and swallowed, sliding down to the root. The man was big, but he was used to Fafhrd's length and girth and could swallow him with ease. The Mouser loved the strength of him, the power and the caution Fafhrd took, trying not to hurt him. He purred, winding his arms around Fafhrd’s hips, an embrace of near worship. 

Fafhrd shuddered harder, close to undone, but kept his feet. Roughly tender, he stroked the Mouser’s hair. It was getting long again, curling to his shoulders. He knew the cat did this just for him, shoving fear of entrapment aside to accommodate his sword-mate's pleasure. “ _Ya'bib ali,_ ” he murmured, voice harsh and breathless. These were words they had learned together during their search in Tovilyis. “ _Ya’damee su._ ” 

The Mouser made another low, rumbling sound, still closed around him, hot and wet and tight until he slid up again. His eyes closed, lashes a dark smudge against his cheeks. He went achingly slow at first, breathing through his nose, his lips at the head nudging foreskin and slit with his tongue. Fafhrd traced the outline of the Mouser’s face, trailing to the pulse in his throat just under his jaw. That steady throb echoed his own. The Mouser reached out, taking Fafhrd’s hand in his. Their fingers twined together as he sank down again, while his other hand and arm locked around Fafhrd’s thigh.

Fafhrd said nothing. His fingers flexed with the Mouser’s, speaking through touch when words were impossible. Neither wanted this to be over, but pleasure, like feet and knees, had its limits. A mounting wail tore itself from Fafhrd’s throat as he bucked forward. The Mouser, humming a noise of pure satisfaction, continued to move up and down, slicking him with his juices. Soon enough, Fafhrd's fists were digging in, giving the Mouser a chance to let go. The cat squeezed his hand hard; _No._

Fafhrd went off in the next breath, bursting in long jets, rising from deep in his spine. The cat remained sealed to him, drinking him in. Once the tremors calmed, the Northerner gently pulled free, sinking into a sprawl before the Mouser who wiped his lips and chin with the back of his hand. Still shaking, Fafhrd grasped a wine bottle and touched it to the Mouser’s cheek. 

The cat took it, rinsed his mouth and swallowed; then took another drink. His smile sweetened. “Good?”

“Yes.” Fafhrd rasped out. “Always. Better than always.”

The Mouser laughed between short, breathy gasps. He dragged towels and pillows around them, a thin barrier between skin and tile, then lay himself beside his sword-mate bringing their bodies and lips together. Fafhrd drank deeply, sharing long, consuming kisses, again using hands and limbs to talk instead of words – until he grazed the wound on the Mouser’s side. The cat pulled back, fingers stabbing into Fafhrd’s arm and shoulder. 

“Gods, Mouser, I’m sorry!” 

“ _Tcha!_ What do we say to pain?”

Fafhrd inhaled deeply. “It is how we know we’re alive.” 

“Yes!” he hissed. “That’s where the shalatu first struck me. It’s how I awoke and knew where I was, when I knew you would come – and you did!” 

“I wish I could kill him again.” 

“I wish I could help you,” the Mouser said truthfully, taking Fafhrd’s face between his hands and bringing him in for a fierce kiss. He had no desire or need to dwell on ropes meant to strangle him, no strike of crop or feather brush meant to torment. He would not waste a moment fretting over a man who tried to tame him. Dead was dead. Here was the bond he cherished, the man who matched his own wildness and would never crush him except with pleasure. 

Fafhrd rolled to his back, bringing the Mouser on top where he took his fill of thick, dark locks, inhaling the scent of warm, jasmine nights. Small as he was, the Mouser was an oasis of delight for those he favored. A man like Teven Drake could never handle him; that he would even try was laughable. Besides, Fafhrd would break his arms if he did. 

His fist closed on the Mouser's cock, stroking him to fullness; then lay back. The cat thrust a pillow under Fafhrd’s hips, reaching for oil. He was fast but sure in pleasuring and preparing. Uttering words of encouragement, Fafhrd hooked his ankle over the Mouser’s shoulder, drawing him in as the cat slicked his cock, wiping the excess oil on his thighs. That smelled good, too, a cross between sea spray and summer heat. 

Shifting forward, the Mouser slid his arm around Fafhrd’s leg, rubbing his cheek against his silky inner thigh like a cat marking his own. Using his free hand, he guided himself to Fafhrd’s entrance and pushed. He looked up to be sure, but there was no sign of pain, only a slight gasp as he entered the well-oiled ring of muscle. 

“All right?” the Mouser asked, blocking the impulse to simply begin rutting. 

“Yes, it’s good,” Fafhrd breathed. “Just … keep going.” 

The Mouser nodded and pressed forward, sinking inch by inch into the giant beneath him. He tried to be as gentle as his sword-mate. He’d had too many flings with violence and pain in a past that had never known Fafhrd, a time when he had been even smaller and didn’t know how to defend himself. Those memories sometimes rose like haunts. Why? Because Fafhrd was kind; because he was generous and most certainly because he was the soul the cat felt he had lost so long ago. Fafhrd never blamed or shamed him when he lost control during night terrors or anywhere else. That’s why it was so necessary to keep him from whatever pain or grief he could, demons be damned. 

The Mouser’s concentration built a sweat as he dismissed baser inclinations. He raised his arms overhead instead, still clinging to Fafhrd’s leg, and reaching for the give and take of the dance that had possessed him the night before. Soon, he was back into its smooth, rolling rhythm, arching his back to plunge deeper into Fafhrd’s body, and wringing the first cry of pleasure beneath him. The Mouser shook his hair back, letting it brush the top of his shoulders. This was dancing. His flesh sizzled as if he might burn to ash. He released a long, ringing cry, a paean to desire, running his hand over himself, grazing the hard, brown discs of his nipples and the flat of his belly with its white ribbon scar. He fingered the crease of hip and thigh, and traced the joining of his body with Fafhrd’s, savoring the incalculable strength of their connection, simply rocking back and forth over his mate’s pleasure spur. And smiled when Fafhrd began to stiffen again, his cockhead stirring and growing dark. The Northerner nudged forward, matching the Mouser thrust for core-shaking thrust, until the cat had to grasp hold of his hips to keep them in place. Their heat fused them together. Fafhrd called his name, following with a groan of sheer triumph. The Mouser echoed his call, lost in an overwhelming trance of passion until he surged forward in one hard, strong thrust. Every muscle, ever nerve in his body screaming as he came...

And came... 

And came. 

Breathless, he felt Fafhrd go off again, his orgasm throbbing through his own and spattering his chest and thighs with milky seed. Everything seemed to grow very bright, drawing him up on bolts of euphoric sensation, set free in a thousand blades of flame. Then there were Fafhrd’s hands guiding him down; arms closing around him. When next the Mouser became aware, he was sprawled bonelessly over Fafhrd’s body.

A soft chuckle rumbled from Fafhrd’s chest; the Mouser felt as much as heard it. “Welcome back, _ya'bib_. You slipped away for a few minutes.” 

The Mouser considered a reply; then remained silent. He didn’t want to move. He had soared to some place far away. Now returned, he was content to stay. Fafhrd’s hands stroked his back and it felt good. 

Fafhrd was finding it difficult to move himself, much less disturb the one draped over him. The Mouser’s weight was nothing but warm and deeply satisfying. Their chests rose and fell as one, and he ached with the joy of it. 

Then the moment passed and self-preservation kicked in. 

“We can’t do this,” Fafhrd said, sitting up and bringing the Mouser with him. “We are not going to sleep here. Not when we have beds … warm, comfortable beds only steps away.”

“Just a minute more … please?”

“That minute has come and gone. Come on, up – up we go.” 

Every limb in revolt, Fafhrd got to his feet literally dragging the cat, who was too wrung out to protest, with him. He placed the Mouser in the chair and rinsed a cloth in the tub, cleaning each of them from the sticky results of their joining. 

“You’re pleasure-drunk, but it’s only a short walk,” Fafhrd coaxed. He covered himself in two thick towels, one around his waist, the other over his shoulders. He slid into sandals and slipped the Mouser’s robe over him, urging the cat to his feet again. “You’ll get cold,” he warned. “You know how you hate being cold. And I know how much I hate to hear about it.” 

The Mouser began to cooperate, finding arm holes and slippers himself. He darted a mildly resentful look at Fafhrd but made no further protest. Fafhrd scooped up their belongings and unlocked the door. 

Somehow they made it back to their room to discover clean bedding – and Scalpel hanging from its customary hook. Fafhrd deposited the Mouser on his bed and locked the door. The cat rose again, stumbling forward. 

“Don’t even try to ward it.” Fafhrd turned him about. “In this state, who knows what you’ll conjure.” 

The Mouser giggled, leaving his robe in Fafhrd’s hands and flinging himself back onto the appreciatively larger bed. With a small return of energy, he settled cross-legged and rolled his wrists together, then began weaving complex patterns with his fingers. His eyes widened, an expectant child opening a mystery gift. A tiny burst of bright green exploded in a cloud of fireflies. It was followed by an equally small burst of yellow leaving a trail of sparks.

“Oh,” the Mouser bubbled happily. “I can still do this.” 

Fafhrd had seen it before, this charge of sex-induced magic. Perhaps they should have remained on the floor until the cat could sleep it off. “Don’t break anything,” he warned. “Or set it on fire.” 

He threw his towels onto the Mouser’s small, square pallet, already home to an enormous pile of pillows, blankets and quilts. He climbed onto his bed and brought the cat up beside him. He wasn’t much worried about the Mouser’s magic. Aside from wards and a few other tricks, he rarely reproduced the same results twice. The cat’s desire for freedom warred against the restrictions of sorcery. 

But now, the Mouser refused to lie down. Gleefully, he placed himself on Fafhrd’s lap, facing him and still weaving fingers, pulling sparks from the air. The hair on Fafhrd’s forearms and chest rose to attention. Wisps of hair floated around the Mouser’s face. 

_“Tcha – tchee!”_ There came another besotted laugh amidst waves of starlight that fell over them like rainfall. “Watch – I’ll match the color of your eyes.” 

“Go ahead,” Fafhrd said, pleasantly. He smiled as a sea-green wave appeared, crested, broke and flowed away around his head. The charge was winding down; they’d be out of danger soon. He picked up Gand Kelann’s healing salve from the small table near his bed and opened it. “Be still. This shouldn’t –“

“Ow – that hurts!” The Mouser flinched as Fafhrd gently rubbed the salve into the wound on his side. 

“It did not.” 

“Well, no … not much. Just surprised me.” The Mouser wriggled his fingers again, but nothing came of it. He frowned. “It’s gone.”

“Don’t fret. It will come back; it always does,” Fafhrd soothed, applying the ointment onto the Mouser’s other wounds; his own as well. “I hope not while we sleep,” he murmured. 

He replaced the salve, dragging out a soft, well-worn tunic to slip over the Mouser’s head and arms. It would shield his wounds while they slept. The garment enveloped the smaller body like a sack. Fafhrd shook his head. 

The cat gazed at him with soft, golden eyes. He brushed the tips of his fingers across Fafhrd’s cheek. _“Ha’roi,”_ he said, smiling. _“Ya’damee su.”_

 _“‘Eynah lamin d’waei saru ya’bib,”_ Fafhrd replied, lying back. “Let us sleep, Mouser mine, and dream the good dreams we both deserve. Nay, have earned you and I.”

The Mouser sank down, pillowing his head on Fafhrd’s shoulder and throwing his arm and leg around him “From now on, I dance only for you,” he said.

Fafhrd kissed the top of his head. “At least for the next month or two.” 

The Mouser purred, content, all thoughts of magic gone. 

For the moment.

**

_**Tovilyese Translations: __**_

_‘Eynah lamin d’waei saru ya’bib_ – “It is my pleasure, dear one/beloved.”

 _Ha’roi_ – “You are my soul.”

 _Shaqiq_ – “Brother.”

 _Ya'bib ali_ – “Love of my heart.” 

_Ya’damee su_ – “You are the one who keeps me whole and living.”


End file.
